A Persian Requiem Read online

  But the gendarme was insistent.

  “Aren’t we from the same village?” he pleaded. “Don’t make it so hard for me. The lieutenant ordered me to bring the horse back by whatever means. He gave me a mission. He said I’m a good lad. He said if I don’t bring the colt back with me, I can resign my post and go straight back to Bardeh, back to my mother’s apron! He said that himself.”

  Gholam put on his hat and said: “Whoever wants to take Sahar has to go and bring him out of the stables himself—if he dares. I’ll knock him over so hard with my shovel, he really will have to run straight back to his mother’s apron!”

  “I give the orders here,” Zari intervened authoritatively. “I’m the mistress of this house. Go and bring Sahar from the stables.”

  By now Mina and Marjan had woken up and come outside to the verandah, with Khadijeh trailing behind asking them to wash their faces first.

  “Khanom, if you ask me, you shouldn’t do this. Think of tomorrow when your son comes home— he’ll be heartbroken. Think of later on when the master gets back … don’t be afraid of these people. Just refuse, that’s all. What can they do to you?”

  The gendarme started off towards the stables. “Aren’t we brothers, from the same village?” he appealed.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Gholam asked.

  “To the stables.”

  “We may be from the same village,” Gholam threatened, “but if you dare set foot in those stables …”

  “I haven’t brought my gun” countered the gendarme, “I’m going to get it now.”

  Gholam grabbed him by the collar and shouted:

  “Now you’re showing off to me with your gun? Aren’t you the same miserable urchin who used to sneak off at night to steal chickens? Did your lieutenant tell you to come threatening me with your gun too?”

  The man shook himself free and muttered: “No, I swear it! But he said I could resign my post and go back to the village if I failed. How can I go back there?”

  Ameh Khanom called Gholam over.

  “Gholam, don’t be stubborn,” she said quietly. “Abol-Ghassem Khan has already made them a promise. Let him take Sahar away for the time being. I’ve had a good idea. I think I can get him back before Khosrow returns.”

  Gholam fetched Sahar from the stables and gave the reins to the gendarme. As he tried to mount, Sahar gave a mighty kick, reared up on his hind legs, and neighed loudly. Both the mare and the chestnut horse answered from the stables. The man fell back and let go of the bridle. Sahar turned to Gholam and sniffed at his rolled-up sleeves. The gendarme made several more attempts to mount, sweating profusely all the time. He tried stroking Sahar’s mane and patting his neck. He brought out a sugar-lump and held it in front of the horse’s mouth. Finally he managed to grab the bridle. Zari handed him the money.

  “Take that for yourself.”

  The gendarme’s eyes shone. Putting the notes in his tunic pocket, he dragged Sahar away.

  The twins watched in horror, ignoring all Khadijeh’s pleas for them to have breakfast. To Zari, it felt as if the garden had been robbed of its life and lustre. Ameh Khanom roundly cursed the universe, before turning on Zari: “Now why did you have to go and tip him?”

  Gholam stood there, watching his mistress whose eyes had filled with tears.

  “Khanom, may the men return safely from hunting,” said Khadijeh appeasingly. “That’s all that matters. The mare is young, and soon she’ll give birth to another Sahar.”

  “I bet I shall have Sahar back in three days!” said Ameh. “It’s just as well you returned their money.”

  Zari was not convinced, however. She ordered Gholam to dig a mock grave down by the stables. She told him to pull out the weeds, smooth over the soil and arrange some stones in a rectangle with a few pots of petunia around it.

  “Take my word and be patient for a while,” Ameh advised.

  But Zari merely turned to Gholam and warned him not to breathe a word of what had happened to Khosrow.

  When they went into the sitting room, Ameh Khanom went straight to the telephone and invited Ezzat-ud-Dowleh for lunch in three days’ time.

  When the day of the luncheon invitation came, Zari went to great lengths to receive Ezzat-ud-Dowleh, although she had never liked the woman much. When she arrived, Zari took her guest’s head-scarf and white gloves and dark glasses and wrapped them neatly in a bundle. Then she gave her a fresh peach-coloured chador to replace the dusty outdoor one. Even though Ezzat-ud-Dowleh had brought along her favourite maidservant, Ferdows, Zari sent the girl to rest in Khosrow’s room. And even though Zari had cooled the parlour since early morning by closing the windows and letting down the straw blinds to keep out the sun, she still provided Ezzat-ud-Dowleh with a fan. Trying to make herself pleasant, she complimented her guest, “What a beautiful head of hair you have.”

  “God bless you,” responded Ezzat-ud-Dowleh.

  Although it was well before lunch-time, she refused any sherbet drink or fruit. She asked for tea which, when she tried, she did not seem to like. She merely remarked: “Ration tea is always stale.”

  At lunch she didn’t eat much. She toyed with a few spoonfuls of rice and kebab which she then pushed aside, asking for sour-grape juice instead. To that she added some grated cucumber and bread-crumbs and onions, saying it was good for her leg pains. Unfortunately the sour-grape juice was last year’s, too, like the tea.

  After lunch, Zari spread out a thin cotton sheet in the parlour and brought a pillow and a delicate coverlet for her guest’s afternoon nap. Ezzat-ud-Dowleh stretched herself out, fan in hand, while Ferdows the maid massaged her legs. Ameh Khanom lay down on another cotton sheet beside her. Zari left the so-called sisters by themselves, and went to her own bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar so that she could overhear their conversation. If Ezzat-ud-Dowleh was willing to cooperate, she was the one person who could get Sahar back. She could even have Zari’s earrings returned, sp Zari’s pains would not have gone unrewarded.

  Ezzat-ud-Dowleh’s voice could easily be heard through the door: “God bless you, Ferdows. Rub harder. That’s better. Have you said your prayers yet? No? Then get up, child, go and say your prayers …”

  Zari could tell Ferdows had left, because Ameh was chatting and laying the groundwork for the favours she wanted to ask later. It was a pity Zari could not hear every word. But Ezzat-ud-Dowleh, lying closer to the door, could easily be heard in a loud and flowing monologue.

  8

  Now I understand, she was saying. When you called I asked myself, why has my sister suddenly remembered me after all this time? We only see each other on holy days or funerals. So you have some sort of problem, and I may be able to help.

  Did you say horse? No, as God is my witness I had no idea your nephew had a colt called Sahar. I had heard about your brother keeping horses. I thought, well, talk about showing off … but as for giving the Governor’s daughter the idea of harping after your nephew’s colt—upon my word, never!

  True, I can’t stand the sight of your brother. And if Zari hadn’t become your sister-in-law, I wouldn’t have hesitated to destroy her entire family. Yes, the whole thing goes back thirteen or fourteen years. But can I ever forget? A distinguished lady like me going to their slum to ask for her hand for my son! Their smoky little living-room the size of our prayer-chamber at home, and her mother like a living skeleton! I’d be ashamed to have my own servant looking like that, with her white hair and yellow complexion, her front teeth missing, wearing an old crumpled dress. I had to hold my breath for the smell of her sweat. You would’ve thought she could at least get some false teeth, comb her hair and dab a spot of rouge on that wrinkled face. After all, I’d come to ask for her daughter’s hand. Such a distinguished lady as myself, too! It was a great stroke of luck for her that my innocent boy had chosen her daughter of all the girls available to him. A hundred times I asked my Hamid, “Son, isn’t it beneath you to marry the daughter of Mirza Ali Akbar Kafar, that unbe
liever of an English teacher at the Shoaieh School?” … Now don’t you be offended, sister, I’m only telling the truth. Anyway, Hamid would say to me, “I’m looking for something I don’t have myself.” I said to him, “What does this girl have besides a nice pair of eyes?” He said, “She has gentleness, virtue and education.” I’d say, “But my love, my son, you can’t live on gentleness, virtue and education.” To cut a long story short, they turned down that piece of luck themselves. I sent Kal Abbas, the doorman, to their awful house for an answer and all they said was that they had consulted the Quran for an augury and the outcome was unfavourable. Since when had Mirza Ali Akbar Kafar’s family believed in consulting the Quran?

  But Hamid had set his heart on marrying Zari, and there I was having to lower myself to go to that ramshackle house again—not once, but twice, three times! Until finally the mother admitted you had taken their daughter the customary shawl and ring, and they’d promised her to you. I thought of coming to dissuade you, telling you that the mother had cancer, telling you that a beggar will always remain a beggar at heart. But you had long since turned your back on our oath and sisterhood. Now, now, how quickly you take offence! It’s true isn’t it?

  No, as God is my witness I didn’t give the Governor’s daughter the idea of taking your nephew’s horse. And now … all right. I’ll do what I can. I’ll tell them it’s a real shame, the boy is utterly heartbroken, and they should give the horse back to him. You did say you’ve sent back their money, or haven’t you? Maybe I’d better persuade her to ride the horse—it’s sure to take off with her and gallop right back to its old stable. That will put riding out of her mind for a while! But as for talking to them about “oppression” and “cruelty” and saying that everyone is cursing the Governor behind his back, that I can’t do. Unlike you, I won’t hurt my friends. You insist? Well, all right. Just for your sake I’ll do it. You know me. I bear grudges, that’s true. But I also understand friendship and sisterhood.

  I’ll tell you the truth about those emerald earrings of Zari’s. The minute I walked into that wedding and set eyes on your sister-in-law looking so pretty and prosperous, I decided to get my own back by making her suffer the loss of her precious earrings. What, you didn’t know? How’s that? You mean she hasn’t let on about them? Well, I could have told you she wouldn’t be particularly honest, coming from that family! … Now it’s no use getting offended, I’m only telling the truth. Yes, it was my doing. I sent Ferdows off at top speed to the haberdasher’s bazaar to buy some green silk. I threw it around the bride’s neck, and told them to go and borrow the emerald earrings belonging to Yusef Khan’s wife, knowing full well they’re not the sort to return earrings. Why are you getting in a state about it now? Let Zari do the worrying. Come now, sister, please don’t look so upset. Well yes … I did know they were a special token … very well, I’ll try to get the earrings back, too. You don’t need to tell me how to do it; I know myself.

  Let’s be sisters again like we used to be. Do you remember that celebration we had when we were children, and we brought over a mullah to swear us to sisterhood, and then they showered us with sugar-plums? But then you changed. Ever since you lost your little boy and your husband killed himself, you seem to have changed into another person altogether. Do you remember, when we were a bit older we both fell in love with Dr Marhamat Khan? He’d just come from Tehran, and they said he’d studied in Europe. I can’t forget that day when we made ourselves up so no-one would recognize us, and went to the doctor’s office. We counted eleven other girls there—some from the town’s best families—who’d also made themselves up and were pretending to be ill. like us, they were really there to show off their faces and bodies to the doctor. Do you remember Etrat, who later became Etrat-Saltaneh, wearing her fancy starched kerchief? Oh Lord, those were the days! You’d pulled out a handful of your hair to say you were going bald, and I’d made up a story about a lump in my right breast which was sometimes there and sometimes not. He dabbed some tincture on your bald spot, and told me I was imagining things. He never married any of us, either. He went and brought a wife from Abadeh.

  Then each of us went our separate ways. I was married first, but we both met with tragedy. Maybe you were better off in the beginning, but your happiness didn’t last. And I couldn’t bring myself to confide my troubles to anyone, not even to you, my sworn sister. They say every ill-starred woman has at least forty days’ grace in her husband’s home, but I didn’t even have that. Imagine my large dowry, my parents’ house and wealthy life-style all falling into the hands of that no-good husband of mine! And a distinguished lady like me, the police chief’s granddaughter … and he was a man whose forefathers had ruled our province like sultans, generation after generation …

  You see, we’d only been married three days before we began to quarrel and my husband said, “Don’t play the police chief’s granddaughter with me; all your ancestors were traitors. Even your great-grandfather was a close aide to that ruthless Agha Mohammad Khan Qajar in return for a piece of cold-blooded treachery.” He said, “Don’t you show off to me with your ancestral home either. Every one of its stones and bricks was laid over the body of an honest, hard-working person. Its clay plaster was mixed with the blood of our wise men …” What, sister! Are you saying my husband was right? I’ll show all of you what right is! Anyway, that same evening when my brother turned up, my husband was all sweetness and light again. You should have seen him with his yes-sir no-sir!

  It was during the first month of our marriage that he fell in love with Nim-Taj, the wife of Massoud Khan. “Major” Massoud had been appointed by the government as chief of police here, if you remember. My uncle and my brothers didn’t want the town to fall into his hands. From the day he arrived they gave him trouble, and finally they set off that famous riot. I watched my coward of a husband suddenly change and become the driving force of that fight, turning my house into a sort of headquarters for my uncle’s armed men. I said to him, “Didn’t you say my brothers, fathers and ancestors were all traitors? How is it that now you’re fighting their battle for them?” I’d just found out that he’d fallen for Nim-Taj. May he never rest in peace!

  Eventually Major Massoud realized he had no chance of surviving. Early one morning he ran away on foot to Seyyid Abol Vafa’s shrine so he could take sanctuary there. My disgraceful husband chased him on horseback and caught up with him before he ever got there. He shot him in the back, and left the poor wretch rolling on the grass crying out for water. A crowd gathered to watch him in his death-throes. No-one dared give him a drop of water for fear of the armed men. Haj Agha, your father, appeared on the scene and took control of the situation. He shouted at the armed men, and told them they’d gone out of their minds, just like their master. He said they’d do penance for this killing right here in this world, and they’d always be haunted by the memory of the poor man’s death-agonies. And he carried Massoud off in a droshke, but apparently the young man died then and there in your Haj Agha’s arms. My husband was afraid of your father, you know. Several times they were about to raid your house but my husband stopped them, saying that Haj Agha would call for a holy war, and Solat the Qashqai chief would join him—and no-one could resist that combination.

  But I was impressed by Nim-Taj. That very night she went to Agha Sheikh Razi, and wouldn’t budge from the house until they arranged to get her back to her parents. When my shameless husband went for her, the bird had flown.

  May your soul never rest in peace, man! He never deserved a well-born lady like me! Whenever we quarrelled, he would say that I was cross-eyed, and he’d been forced to marry me. He would say he didn’t love me but wouldn’t leave me either because he didn’t want people to insult our son by saying that his mother was a divorcee. And I, pathetic fool that I was, loved him to distraction. He knew exactly what to do to get his own way with me. I was always finding strands of blonde or black hair or sequins from women’s dresses on the collar of his coat. Eventually he had the nerve
to bring his women to the house. First he only brought them as far as the outer courtyard, and then he even brought them to the inner rooms.

  Towards the end, he loved to have “hundred toman” whores. He’d say it was too demeaning for a “hundred toman” whore to be taken to the outer courtyard. So they would sit on the wooden bed we placed over the pool in the inner courtyard while I sent them trays of drinks. I would soak his tobacco in spirits and prepare his hookah. That hypocrite! First he would say his prayers, then he would settle down to his drinking. “Don’t perform the holy prayers after imbibing drink,” he would quote from the Quran. I would watch them through the stained-glass windows of the sitting-room till dawn.

  In the morning he would kiss my hand, he would kiss my feet. He would say, “What can I do, that’s how I am. The minute I see the flutter of a woman’s veil, any woman, I lose my senses.” And I would cry floods of tears and tell him, “Take my marriage portion and set me free, go away, leave me alone. This house and everything in it is mine anyway. I don’t need a useless effigy to call a husband.” I would swear by my one and only son, threaten to go to Haj Agha your father or to you, my sister, and take sanctuary. Haj Agha wasn’t the kind of man whose word people took lightly. But he was always ready with an answer. “Whose house did you say you’re going to?” he would sneer. “Haj Agha himself is one of the great lovers of our time. He keeps a mistress living under his own roof!” He declared he didn’t care a hoot what the Almighty said, let alone Haj Agha. Believe me, he meant it; he had turned away from God. Around that time he stopped bothering to say his prayers altogether. When he rode on horseback and people greeted him, he wouldn’t return their greetings. He would signal to the outrider to answer them. Yes, my sister, this is the first time I’m telling you all this. You see, when your husband and son died, you forgot about me, your sworn sister.